


Caution, Warrior at Work

by clgfanfic



Category: Delta Force (1986), War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harrison is in danger Paul truns to an old friend to help him get Blackwood back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caution, Warrior at Work

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Just For Kicks and later in Black Ops #2, and Green Floating Weirdness #22 under the pen name Gillian Holt.

# "What was I supposed to do, Doctor?  Shake his fucking hand?"

 

          The alien commander and primary scientist shuffled into the presence of the three Advocates, their heads bowed.  They waited in silence while the three alien leaders finished their discussion, trying hard not to eavesdrop.  The acoustics of the large underground cavern made the task difficult, but not impossible.

          "Speak, Commander," the elder male finally said by way of acknowledgment.

          The rather pink face of the human host the commander inhabited tilted upward.  Small blue eyes and a bulbous nose rendered the host a passable Porky Pig look-alike.  "I am nothing without your council," he began, choosing his words with care.  "Advocates, the scientist wishes to speak."

          Three heads swiveled to look at the rather portly woman, who stood a step behind the military commander.  She took a half-step backward.  The scientific class was not in favor at present, and she knew she walked the fine line of survival.

          "Speak, scientist," the elder male commanded.

          She forced herself to step forward, next to the commander, her shoulder brushing his in a silent request for support.  "Advocates, our latest experiments progress well ahead of schedule.  If all goes well, we will have the final contagion prepared before the end of the cold season here."

          "Excellent," the female Advocate rewarded, "it seems that our decision to conduct these tests on the land mass the humans call 'Africa' has paid off in a remarkable lack of interference."

          "That is true, Advocate," the Commander stated.  "Our scientists and drones have been able to move about that continent with impunity.  It appears that the darker pigmented humans are of less value than the pale.  There has been no attention to our activities in their press, nor in their governmental circles."

          "The moment of our ultimate victory over these vermin grows close, Comrades," the younger male proclaimed.

          "Yes," the female concurred.  "It has taken us far too long, but the Council will be pleased.  It was, after all, inevitable."

          "Do not allow anything to interfere with our victory, Commander," the elder male ordered.

          "Yes, Advocate."  He added, "I am sure that any actions the humans take now will already be too late."

          The scientist nodded.  "Many of our sleeping brethren have been revived, Advocate, just as you ordered, and in the positive environment the humans call rain-forest, they grow to perfect health."

          "Have you determined what it is that we here lack?" the female asked.

          The scientist bowed her head.  "No, Advocate, I have not.  Nonetheless, those we prepare will not be so easy to destroy.  Something in the rainforest stabilizes their structure.  The oxidation process is retarded.  If they are injured, they will not decompose as we do.  However, I believe that extended time in the environment will heal us as well."

          "And this immunity, is it the same of the human hosts our brethren occupy?" the younger male queried.

          "Yes, Advocate," the scientist stated, daring to lift her head.  "They are equally invulnerable to injury, even while inhabiting a human host.  And their strength is at last full.  The humans have no hope of stopping us."

          "Excellent!  At last our orders have been followed to the letter," the elder male proclaimed.

          "I must return to my work, Advocates," the scientist stated.  "Acquiring the bodies of the CDC researchers has proven a great boon to our efforts, but we must hurry before they spoil."

          The three Advocates bowed as one.  "Leave, scientist, and do not fail."

          The woman bowed stiffly and left.  The military commander emulated her lead and followed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Mabalo Yandongi stepped into the ramshackle hovel that blended into the tumble of identical dwellings on the edge of Kinshasa, the capital of Zaire.  He squinted into the dim shadows that filled the room like the pale of death.  Three men sat hunched together on the narrow cot that served as the only bed for a family of nine.

          They were small men by American standards, thin and nervous.  Their black skin allowed them to blend into the shadows, only the flash of white from their teeth and eyes marking their presence.

          "Mabalo, we thought you had been discovered," one of the waiting men whispered, seeming to pull further into the blackness of the corner.

          "No.  I took a different route to get here.  In case they're watching me."

          "Did you speak to the American?" another of the waiting men asked, daring to lean closer for the answer.

          "Yes," Mabalo said.  "He agreed, but his price is high.  One million American dollars."

          "One million?"

          "That's impossible!"

          "Shh," the third silenced his companions.  "Mabalo, are you crazy?  How can we hope to pay?  We are poor men."

          "We will find a way.  We will steal it, but it _must_ be done.  They are killing us.  Killing the Bumba.  Killing our families, our villages.  There is nothing left for us. No one will listen.  This is the only way.  We will go to the mines and take what we must have."

          "This American will kill us if we do not pay him all he asks.  We cannot even steal that amount," the one hunched into the corner whined.  "Either way we are dead."

          Mabalo took a step closer to the bed.  "But the world will know.  They will see what they have done."  He thought for a moment, coming to terms with what he was planning.  "It is true, we will die one way or another, but our children will have a chance at life.  That is more than they have now."

          The three men sat in silence, the truth stopping the words of protest and fear in their throats.

          "We meet again, day after tomorrow, in Kinshasa.  I will go see where we can get the money.  There will be a way.  God will show me."

          Mabalo waited for a reply, and when none came he strode to the bedside, his arms raised above his head.  "Do you think it will go away?  Do you think anyone will listen if they do not have a reason!" he barked at them.  "We are _nothing_.  Hands that work and that is all.  They think if one of us dies, another will fill his place.  They refuse to see the bodies that line the alleys.  We have to do this.  It is the only way our children can live!"

          One of the men stood.  "We know, Mabalo.  It is the only way.  But we are afraid.  Everyone hates us.  The whites because we are black, the Moslems because of our belief in Jesus, the managers because we cannot work harder.  Even if we do this thing, why should they listen?"

          Mabalo's head shook as he tried to chase the depressing thought away.  "They must.  Someone must have compassion.  Someone must care if the children live or die.  They send their soldiers to Somalia, to Nigeria.  They send the doctors, the scientists, the missionaries.  They came to cure the Ebola.  Why have they done all this if they do not care if we live or die?"

          "They do it for their own reasons," came the retort from the corner.  "We cannot understand them."

          "Perhaps not, but we have to try.  It is our responsibility to see that the children live to grow up.  Once we hunted, then we worked in their factories and fields, and now we will do this thing.  The day after the morrow, at the garbage fill. No one will notice four more scavengers."

          Mabalo turned, not waiting for their reply, and stalked out into the bright sunlight.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Colonel!"

          The soldier's office door flew open, Blackwood roaring into the room.  He glanced up from the book he was reading.  "Harrison," he acknowledged.

          "This is fantastic!  The opportunity of a lifetime!"

          The colonel blinked once.  "Yes?"

          "Suzanne and I are going."

          "Going?"

          Harrison smiled broadly, then nodded.  "Going.  We're going."

          "Where?" Ironhorse asked, snapping the book closed.

          "Zaire."

          "Zaire?"  Ironhorse stood.

          "I knew you'd understand," Harrison said, spinning and heading for the door. "Now, I have to get Norton—"

          "Just a damned minute," Paul said, chasing after the rapidly retreating scientist.  "What the hell are you talking about?"

          Harrison paused in the hall.  He turned, facing the pursuing soldier.  "What?"

          "What?" the colonel asked, suppressing his desire to throttle the man.  "What?  _What_ the hell are you talking about?"

          "I just told you."

          "You haven't told me anything!"

          Harrison blinked.  "Okay, I'll start from the beginning," he said, slipping into his lecture voice.

          The colonel's black eyes narrowed.  "Thank you."

          Harrison frowned, obviously wondering why the soldier was so cranky.  "There's a conference in Zaire.  An international conference of microbiologists, virologists, and, well, that sort of thing."

          "And, you and Suzanne need to go?"

          The excited sparkle rekindled in Harrison's eyes.  "Yes."

          "Why?" Ironhorse asked, reining in his rapidly mounting anger.

          "Because."

          "That's not a particularly articulate response, Blackwood.  Care to try again?"

          Harrison sucked in a deep breath and huffed.  "Because, Colonel," he explained in a painstaking tone, "Suzanne's been monitoring several ongoing outbreaks of what looks like an Ebola virus in sub-Saharan Africa.  This conference is meeting to address the increasing number of exotic viruses and bacteria that have been cropping up on that continent."

          "And how does that fit with our charter, Doctor?"

          That stopped Blackwood for a moment.  "I— I don't know, but the research that's going on might give Suzanne some insights on her work."

          Ironhorse sighed.  "Why didn't you just tell me that to begin with?"

          Blackwood looked hurt.  "I did, Colonel."

          A silent ten-count, and Ironhorse continued.  "If Suzanne thinks this conference might help her with her work, I'll see what I can do."

          "I knew we could work this out," the astrophysicist said, reaching out to clap the colonel's shoulder.  "Make the reservations for two.  I'm going, too."

          "You?"

          Harrison grinned.  "Just trying to keep up, Colonel.  Oh, and no Omegan escort.  This has nothing to do with the aliens, and we need the vacation."

          "You know I can't do that, Harrison."

          "Yes, you can.  I won't have a babysitter tagging along after me.  Besides, it'll be obvious that they're bodyguards.  The only people that will be at this conference are scientists."

          Ironhorse frowned.  Blackwood was right about them needing a vacation, but…  "Okay, no escort, but I'll be joining you."

          "You?"

          The colonel gave Harrison an indulgent smile.  "Just trying to keep up, Doctor."

          "Have it your way, but don't forget to bring a book."

          Ironhorse watched the scientist head for the kitchen, wondering if he was ever going to understand the bizarre twists and turns of Blackwood-logic.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "All right, listen up, you animals!"  The deep voice boomed through the room, signaling instant, attentive silence.

          The speaker was six feet tall, and 165 pounds of carefully crafted muscle.  His red-brown hair was shot through with silver.  Pale gray-blue eyes looked like steel and were just as cold.  Everything about the man commanded respect, and he secured it from the collection of men in the room.

          "We've received our down payment.  The mission is a go."

          He watched the heads nod and the excitement in the room rose a notch.  They were good men on the whole, some ex-military, a few ex-Special Forces, and fewer still ex-federal agents from a collection of countries spanning the globe.  All of them had lost any scruples they might once have held.  Now they were looking for excitement, money, and the chance to kill.  Now they were his men, and they were loyal.

          "I want the initial recon of the hotel conducted by 0600 day after tomorrow.  I want detailed photographs of all entrances and exits.  Maps and back-up transportation.  Habber, you and Ambersen find me a couple of countries we can use to lay low in for a couple of months once this is done."

          The two men nodded.

          "Coul, what's the final payoff?"

          "A cool million from our Zairian tribesmen, and I'd wager an additional three million from the scientists' home countries before it's over."

          The men all nodded again, smiles spreading across the faces of the mercenaries.

          "Who'll we be up against?" one ex-SAS sergeant asked.

          "Clinton doesn't have the balls to deploy Delta Force or the SEALs.  The best the Zairian officials can do is call in the Belgium Special Forces, and even that's highly unlikely.  It smacks of past colonialism.  No, I think all we'll have is the local police and military to deal with.  They shouldn't pose any problems we can't handle."

          A wave of laughter echoed through the room as James Coul watched his men file out into the small hanger they were using as a base of operations.  This was going to be a cakewalk.  The government of Zaire had no way to stop them.  He had nothing to worry about.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison and Suzanne stepped into the lobby of Kinshasa's International Hilton Hotel, both of them pausing to take in the grandeur of the marble, living plants, and fountains.

          "Wow," Harrison breathed.

          "Yeah," Suzanne concurred.  "Amazing."  She glanced around.  "I guess imperialism really does pay off."

          "Exactly," Harrison said.  "But a little incongruous, given what we saw during the drive into the capital, wouldn't you say?"

          Suzanne nodded, remembering the poverty and wretched conditions they had seen past the tinted windows of the limousine that had picked them up.  "Someday we'll wise up," she told him.  "I hope."

          "Me, too," Harrison said as they reached the desk.

          A beautiful blonde woman greeted them with a smile.  Her accent was vaguely South African.  "May I help you?"

          "We're here for the microbiology conference," Harrison said with an inviting smile.  "I'm Harrison Blackwood, and this is Dr. Suzanne McCullough."

          The woman's well-manicured fingertips darted across the keyboard of her computer.  "Yes, I have your reservations right here."

          She reached into a desk drawer and removed two metal keys.  Inserting them into a small machine, she coded each for the suite the two would share.  That done, she handed the keys to Harrison.

          Freeing a computer printout from the printer, she handed that over as well.  "Your room number is 333.  You can register for your conference after 5 p.m., in the Orchid room; that is on the seventh floor.  Your luggage will be brought right up."

          "Thank you," Harrison and Suzanne replied in unison.

          Their suite was modern, large, and comfortably furnished.  A generous bouquet of flowers rested on the coffee table.  Suzanne dropped her briefcase on the over-stuffed sofa and removed the small card sitting on a plastic stick like a placard.

          Opening it, she read aloud: "Enjoy the conference.  Keep Harrison on a leash. See you both the day after tomorrow.  Paul."

          Blackwood gave the small card a withering scowl.  "A leash?"

          Suzanne grinned.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Once they settled in, Harrison and Suzanne tested the dining room, finding it more than adequate.  Their meal finished, they headed for the Orchid room, where they were met by a petite blonde whose unusual accent immediately intrigued Blackwood.

          "Harrison Blackwood and Suzanne McCullough," he said, smiling.

          The young woman dug through a series of manila folders that filled two boxes on the table.  "Ah, here we are, Dr. Blackwood," she said, handing over a folder to Harrison.

          "Thank you," he said, smiling again.

          "And Dr. McCullough," she said, handing Suzanne her packet.

          "Thank you."

          Harrison cleared his throat and tried to look harmless.  "If you wouldn't mind me asking, your accent…?"

          "Belgium," the young woman said.  "I'm one of Dr. Braum's graduate students."

          "Ah," Harrison said.  He had read about Braum, a world-class microbiologist with a penchant for third world causes.

          "The conference will officially begin tomorrow morning at 10 a.m., but there's an informal gathering later this evening in the atrium.  That's on the first floor.  We'll be serving wine and some snacks starting at eight."

          "Thank you, we'll be there," Harrison said.  "Will you?"

          The blonde dipped her head slightly.  "Yes, I'll be there with Dr. Braum and several other students."

          "Wonderful," Harrison told her.  "I hope you'll introduce us to Dr. Braum, Miss…?"

          "Sophie, Sophie Braum.  I'm also Dr. Braum's daughter, and I would be happy to introduce you."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Yandongi?"

          "I am here," Mabalo replied, stepping out of the shadows of the Hilton's rear receiving dock.

          Coul stepped up to join the anxious man while his mercenaries, dressed like drivers and delivery people, went about unloading produce off a large semi tractor-trailer.

          "Is everything ready?"

          Mabalo's gaze swept over the otherwise-empty ramps, and he whispered, "It is."

          Coul nodded, studying the nervous man.  Mabalo Yandongi was scared.  Not frightened, but terrified.  And he should be, Coul decided.  What they planned was tenuous at best; suicide if mistakes occurred.  But he didn't make mistakes.  He smiled to himself.  It was a good thing Yandongi didn't know the additions Coul had made to his plans.

          "You and your people should wait until we have the hotel, then you can make your statements," the mercenary stated.

          Mabalo's head bobbed in agreement, his throat too dry to speak.

          "And you're sure our inside contact will have everyone in the Orchid room at 10 a.m. tomorrow?"

          "Yes.  I am sure."

          "Then give us a hour to secure the building.  I'll see you tomorrow at eleven."

          "Eleven."  Mabalo watched the American mercenary turn and grab a box of expensive kiwi fruit, carrying it into to the hotel.  His eyes rolled upward until he was staring at the sky.  "God protect us," he whispered.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison left Suzanne talking to a German biochemist and wandered off, hoping to find Sophie Braum.  He spotted her halfway across the large room, standing with her father.

          Otto Braum was everything Blackwood expected.  Tall, Nordic-looking, with blond hair, well streaked with gray, and pale blue eyes.  The long gold-gray hair was held back by a leather thong, and instead of a suit or slacks, he wore old military fatigues cut off to make shorts and a tee-shirt that proclaimed in blue tie-dyed letters: Earth Day, Every Day.  A pair of Birkenstocks and some Native American jewelry completed the picture of a Bohemian environmental activist.

          Harrison helped himself to a glass of California wine, then headed over to meet the man he had admired for several years.

          "Obie," a handsome, if too thin middle-aged woman interrupted, stepping in front of Blackwood and cutting him off.  "It's so nice to see you," she said, her French accent giving away the delegation she had arrived with.

          "Nikki, my dear," he replied smoothly.  "I'm glad you decided to come.  I heard you were busy with research in Ghana."

          "I am, but the opportunity to discuss my findings with everyone…  Well, it was simply too good to pass up."

          "Dr. Braum," Harrison said, stepping around Nikki and extending his hand.

          "This is Dr. Harrison Blackwood," Sophie supplied.  "From the United States."

          Braum's eyes widened.  "Ah, yes, the astrophysicist."  He took Harrison's hand and shook it.  "You're here with Dr. McCullough?"

          "Yes, but I'm afraid she's occupied at the moment.  Dr. Hauss found her just after we arrived."

          "I see.  Well, I'm sure I'll have plenty of opportunities to speak to her.  And please, call me Obie, Dr. Blackwood."

          "It's Harrison."

          Obie chuckled and nodded.  "A kindred spirit, I see."

          Harrison smiled.  "I'd certainly like to think so."

          Sophie stepped up to Harrison, and slid her arm through his.  "Why don't I introduce you to the others?"

          "I'd like that," he replied, then looked to her father.  "If you wouldn't mind?"

          "Please.  Tomorrow we talk about issues that are too depressing to contemplate; tonight is for enjoyment."

          Harrison let Sophie lead him off, planning to take Dr. Braum's advice.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison and Suzanne sat near the center of the conference room, surrounded by microbiologists, virologists, infectious and tropical disease experts, all of whom looked as shocked as the two Project members felt.  The statistics were staggering.  Increasing discoveries of new and mutated bacteria and viruses.  Increasing outbreaks of epidemics on all continents.  Increasing morbidity even in industrial nations.  Increasing resistance to routine antibiotic treatment.  The picture Dr. Braum painted was grim indeed.

          Harrison glanced toward the side of the room as two men entered with fresh pitchers of ice-water and several trays of finger-food.  His brows pinched over the bridge of his nose.  Why did they bother him?

          They were white and the majority of the hotel's employees – with the notable exception of the staff at the front desk – were all Africans.  But it was something else, something familiar.

          Ironhorse.

          Harrison's head cocked slightly to one side.  They reminded him of the colonel, but why?  The way they moved?  The way their gazes flickered over the scientists?  The way they seemed to be ready for… something.

          Harrison sat up straighter in his chair, then reached out to rest a hand on Suzanne's arm.

          She leaned closer to him.  "What?" she asked softly as Dr. Braum continued to answer a question from a South African scientist.

          "Those men," he whispered into her ear.  "Something's not right about them."

          Suzanne glanced at the pair, then back to Blackwood.  "They're just bringing in some food and water."

          "Look at them," he instructed.  "I think they're soldiers."

          Suzanne's eyes widened, but she casually glanced back at the men, taking the time to really look at them.  Muscular, short hair, they looked like they could be soldiers, but—

          Before she could question Harrison about his hunch, several more men entered the room, fanning out along the edges of the room in a swift choreography that left her breakfast resting heavily in the pit of her stomach.  One of the men moved to the front of the room, joining Dr. Braum at the podium.  She guessed he was six foot, and around 165 pounds of muscle.  His rusty brown hair was shot through with silver like Braum's, but unlike the scientist's compassionate eyes, this man's were hard and cold.

          With a graceful movement, the newcomer removed a hand-held semi-automatic weapon Suzanne thought she recognized as the same one favored by the Omegans.  With a collective gasp, the scientists waited for a moment that dragged into an interminable future.

          "Ladies and gentleman," the man finally said, "you are now the prisoners of the Zairian Tribal Liberation League.  If you remain calm and do as you are told, no one will be hurt."  He smiled, but it did little to reassure Harrison or Suzanne.

          Mabalo stepped up to the podium, his face shiny with nervous sweat.  His hands shook, and he forced himself to grip the smooth sides of the wood to still them.

          "I am sorry we had to do this," he said.  "But there was no other way."

          "Like hell you say," one of the scientists growled.

          "We tried other methods," Mabalo snapped.  "But no one listened.  No one cared about poor Zairians dying in the jungle!"

          "Tell us," Braum suggested calmly from the chair he now occupied in the front row, "we are here for this reason."

          Mabalo nodded, and started, his voice cracking with emotion.  "Almost six months ago, there was a village in the jungle near Bumba.  It is no longer there.  The people are all gone.  Dead.  A sickness came and killed them all.  That sickness has spread, killing many, many villages in the jungle.  We asked the government for help, but they are Moslems, they did not come, and more people died.  We asked the missionaries for help.  They came, then refused to aid us.  We turned to foreigners, but they refused to hear us, and more people died.  The sickness spreads through the jungles, killing whole villages in a single night.

          "Then the sickness crept from the jungle.  My relatives began to get sick.  Jungle people came.  They told us of the death that awaited our children if we could not get help.  We went to the government, but they were deaf.  What do they care if the poor Christians, poor people in the jungle, in the towns, die?  It is fewer mouths to feed, fewer complaints to be heard.

          "But _we_ care.  We prayed and no one came to help us.  We knew we had to help ourselves.  You will cure this disease, or you will die."

          "Tell us more about this sickness," a French scientist demanded.

          "It came from the jungle.  The tribal men I spoke to said it was loosed from demons, evil spirits.  Hideous monsters out to destroy the world," Mabalo explained.  "They move through the jungle, conjuring death."

          Harrison and Suzanne exchanged concerned looks.  "You don't think?" she asked.

          Harrison shrugged.  "Good thing Ironhorse is already on the way.  I think we have a situation here."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Colonel Paul Ironhorse was over Germany when he received word that the international microbiology conference had been taken over by local terrorists.  Before they cleared German air space, he was on the phone with General Henry J. Wilson, head of the Blackwood Project, who reported directly to the President.

          "I heard when you did, Colonel," Wilson said.

          "I'd like permission to activate Delta Force."

          "We haven't received a go from the government of Zaire.  As soon as we do, you'll have it.  What do you have in mind?"

          Paul sagged back against his seat.  The plush leather of the private Leer was comfortable, but Ironhorse was anything but.  "It'll have to be a small force to avoid being obvious.  I can't take the chance of depleting Omega.  If the aliens get active I need them right where they are."

          "I agree," Wilson said.

          "I should be able to make do with Stavrakos, Stein, Goodson, and a Delta A-team."

          "Any preferences?" Wilson asked, knowing Ironhorse was more familiar with Delta Force than even he was.

          "Lieutenant Colonel Scott McCoy, or Major Craig Windjoy, whichever one is closer.  Have him bring a hand-picked A-team.  Close quarter and room clearing experts, and a couple of snipers, in case we get lucky."

          Wilson chuckled.  McCoy and Windjoy's reputations were rivaled only by Ironhorse's own.  _Heaven help these terrorists_ , he thought, a feral smile spreading across his lips.  They didn't have a prayer.

          "You'll have it, Paul.  As soon as the diplomats smooth the way, we'll have someone in the air.  Just bring Blackwood and my niece back alive."

          "I will, sir," Ironhorse promised quietly.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Squinting through the glare of an African sunset, Ironhorse watched the commercial 427 land and taxi over to the weathered hanger where he waited in the shadows.  The pilot maneuvered the craft into the structure before cutting the engines.  Anyone watching the airport would have witnessed a Zairian Airbus coming in for regular maintenance.  Several Africans began scurrying around the craft, beginning the standard repair process.

          As it grew dark, the workers turned on the lights and four mechanics wrestled the hanger doors closed, shutting out the rising winds and dust.  Paul waited until his radio clicked twice, signaling an all clear, before he walked over to the plane and gestured for the man seating in the pilot's seat to come down.

          A few moments later one of the doors opened and ten men descended the steps to the hanger floor.  Dressed in the same dark green coveralls the maintenance crew wore, they all carried black duffel bags and small cases that concealed their weapons.

          The last man to reach the ground was slightly shorter than Ironhorse, with dark blond hair, beard and mustache.  He grinned when he reached Paul.  Dropping the duffel first, he set the case down, then extended his hand.  As soon as Paul took it, he tugged Ironhorse into a rib-cracking hug.

          "Damn, Ironhorse, it's good to see you.  I thought you'd dropped off the edge of the planet."

          Ironhorse chuckled.  "Something like that," he replied, pounding the man's back. "It's good to see you again, too, Scott."

          "That's Colonel McCoy to you, Chief."

          Paul pushed the man back.  "That's Lieutenant Colonel McCoy, Colonel."

          Scott grinned.  "Yeah, well, they'll promote anyone these days.  I mean, hell, they promoted you to full bird, didn't they?"

          Ironhorse shook his head, enjoying the long-absent banter.  There were times he missed the camaraderie of the Special Forces, but Ironhorse knew his mission was more important than the comfort of regular friendship.

          "What's up?" McCoy asked, his men gathering around.

          "Let's step into the office," Paul suggested, leading the way.  When Scott and his nine-man team settled onto the furniture he explained.  "We have an international conference of microbiologists being held hostage by an unknown group of terrorists.  They're calling themselves the Zairian Tribal Liberation League, but that's not an organization anyone's familiar with."

          "Any ideas on numbers?"

          "My men are conducting a sweep of the building now," Ironhorse stated.  "We should have some answers soon."

          "The locals are going to let us go in and clear the building?" McCoy asked.  Ironhorse's answering frown and sigh told Scott all he needed to know.  "So we wait."  He sighed.  "SOP."

          Paul nodded.  There was nothing more he could add.  Since its inception Delta Force had found its hands tied more often than not.

          "Colonel," Stein said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

          All the soldiers watched as the short, dark-haired man walked over to Ironhorse and handed him a stack of photographs.  The colonel scanned the stack, then passed them to Scott.

          "Well?" Ironhorse asked.

          Stein leaned back against the desk that occupied the center of the room and folded his arms across his chest.  "It's going to be tricky.  The local police evacuated the buildings around the periphery of the hotel.  Their military have a tight perimeter set up, so no one's getting in or out.  As for the hotel, there are two options for entry – the sewer and the telecommunications tunnels.  Neither is guarded at the off-site entrance, but I don't know for sure about outlets in the hotel itself."

          "I vote for the telcom tunnels," Scott said.  "After visiting the sewers in Beirut, I _know_ I don't want a repeat performance here."

          Ironhorse's head bobbed.  "What's the head count?"

          "From what we could determine using the high powers from the surrounding rooftops, it looks like forty to fifty men.  We got pictures of all of the ones we could. They're primarily white, so it's my guess the locals behind this hired mercenaries."

          "Leadership?" the colonel asked.

          "I have no idea.  There was nothing obvious."

          "Is there any way we can get some people into the building to have a look around?" Scott asked.

          Stein nodded.  "The locals calling themselves the Zairian Tribal Liberation League are letting in small groups of journalists.  We could slip in with them, but they aren't getting much of a tour from what I heard this morning or afternoon."

          "Do it.  I want as many options as possible." Ironhorse paused, then asked, "Any other… influences?"

          Stein shook his head.

          "That's something," Ironhorse muttered.

          "Alex is getting the hotel's blueprints now.  That might help."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The next morning found Ironhorse and McCoy slithering through the ventilation ducts of the Hilton.  They inched along, using leather elbow pads and moccasins to minimize the noise.  The men holding the hotel guarded the sewer outlet, but not the telecom tunnels, which were harder to find, and considerably smaller.  The tunnels did, however, eventually give them access to the hotel's duct system.

          Ironhorse guessed that the mercenaries simply didn't have the manpower to cover every possible point of entry.  So far, he appeared to be right.  They were using electronic surveillance equipment to augment their protection.  High-powered, state-of-the-art equipment.

          But Ironhorse and McCoy were experts on the same equipment, and it wasn't hard to maneuver past what they found, leaving behind some of their own in their wake.

          As they moved through the ducts they also took pictures through the vents, noting the times and the places they found guards.  From the buildings surrounding the hotel the Omegans and McCoy's A-team were also taking pictures, and a satellite above them was keeping track of the men guarding the roof, revealing when they changed shifts, and where each man liked to spend his time.

          In the early afternoon, distant, muffled voices directed their movement until they found a large room filled with the scientists, four Africans, and seven mercs, including the man Ironhorse knew must be their leader.  Ex-Major James Coul, United States Army, Special Forces.

          Suzanne and Blackwood were uninjured and behaving themselves, he noted. That was a plus.  Blackwood could be unpredictable, depending on the situation.

          Ironhorse and McCoy laid their own surveillance equipment and eased out of the building undetected.  Mr. Murphy was still on their side.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          General Henry J. Wilson, dressed in a casual business suit and carrying a well-worn briefcase, walked into the Zairian capital's second largest hotel and stalked to the registration desk.  In moments "Mr. Hank Wilson" was on his way up to a private suite on the top floor.  The bellman opened his room, then carried in his luggage.

          Wilson tipped the man, waited for him to leave, then walked over to the bedroom and opened the door.  Ironhorse and McCoy exited.  The three men made themselves comfortable in the small sitting area.

          "It took some doing, but we have a go from the President of Zaire," Wilson stated.  "What are we looking at?"

          Scott leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he explained, "The hotel's nine stories high.  Total of 400 rooms, 20 suites, and 10 conference rooms.  Not to mention three restaurants, a weight room, indoor pool and sauna, and an atrium."

          "Sounds very nice," Wilson replied dryly.

          "They let everyone except the conference attendees leave," Ironhorse said.  "That includes the entire hotel staff.  There are a total of 180 hostages, and approximately forty-five terrorists, not including the four members of the Zairian Tribal Liberation League, who seem to be behind this.  They claim that they're trying to force recognition of the plagues decimating their people in the jungles and get some kind of response."

          Wilson nodded.  "CNN is being very supportive of their cause.  The U.N.'s taking some publicity blows."

          "The mercs let it be known this morning that while they support the ZTLL's claims, they want an additional three million in gold for the release of the hostages," Ironhorse added.

          McCoy resumed the briefing.  "They're using passive electronic security on floors two through nine, live guards on one and seven – where the hostages are being kept."

          "But they're rotating live guards in the stairwells on all floors," Ironhorse added.  "The elevators are shut down.  Controls destroyed.  So far, the hostages have stayed in what's called the Orchid room on the seventh floor during the day, and in rooms on the first floor at night."

          "Except for occasional john breaks," McCoy added.

          "There are guards in each room while they sleep.  We'll have to move while they're all together," Paul added.

          "What about the journalists?" Wilson asked with a wry grin.

          "They're only being allowed into the atrium on the first floor to talk to the members of the ZTLL and Braum," Ironhorse responded.  "They've gone in at 1000 hours and again at 1600 yesterday and the day before.  We're assuming the schedule will be the same tomorrow."

          "The seventy-two hour deadline for the U.N. and the President to respond with a promise of aid will come up tomorrow morning.  Along with the mercs' deadline for an okay on the additional three mil.  What's Clinton going to do?" McCoy asked.

          "The gold is out of the question.  However, he's sympathetic to the plight of the people here.  But he can't commit the resources of the CDC to whatever plague is killing the jungle villagers.  He's speaking to the U.N., trying to get a commitment of researchers and some resources from other nations, but it's going to take time for everyone to get their act together."

          "Time we don't have," Ironhorse stated flatly.  "Coul said they'd kill their first hostage tomorrow at 1015 if they don't have a signed promise of help, and a promise to pay.  But to tell you the truth, I don't think the four ZTLL have a clue about Coul's additional demand of money."

          "The United States is willing to help, but we cannot speak for everyone else.  And we can't commit as quickly as they want," Wilson said.  "It was the best I could do."

          "We're just going to have to go in and get them," McCoy stated.

          "With Coul that might not be easy," Ironhorse said.

          "Coul?" Wilson echoed.  "The name's familiar."

          "Ex-major James Coul," McCoy explained.

          "I thought I'd heard the name," Wilson said.  "I thought he was dead."

          "Evidently not," McCoy replied, a slight grin spreading across his face.  "But with luck he'll wish he was before this is over."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          O500.  The sun, still two hours from rising, meant that the streets around the Hilton were black.  The exterior of the hotel was bright with external lights, shining through the thick landscape foliage.  Ironhorse, McCoy, and Stavrakos scanned the outside of the building for guards.  Four men moved through the first floor, occasionally emerging to check just outside the main doors.

          "Well-trained soldiers, aren't they?" McCoy asked.

          "Lucky for us," Ironhorse muttered under his breath.  "They've got a schedule down and they're sticking to it."

          "Inflation strikes at many levels.  Guess if you can't buy talent, you buy loyalty to orders."  McCoy titled his night scope up, checking the windows of the hotel.  "Ol' Coul couldn't afford the very best… we're not for sale."

          "It's a big building for fourteen men to take and hold," Stavrakos commented.

          "It's a big building for forty-five men to keep," was McCoy's counter.  "We just have to make sure we get them before they get us.  Three to one odds…  I'd say they don't stand a chance."

          The sergeant grinned.  "You're right about that, sir."

          Ironhorse completed his examination.  "They don't look like they're varying their pattern.  We'll go at 0700.  Get them ready, Sergeant."

          "Yes, sir," Stavrakos said, disappearing into the dark.

          Ironhorse looked to Scott.  "Think they'll mind if we show up without a reservation?"

          "It's your party, Chief," McCoy said, a predatory grin on his face.  "Make 'em cry if you want to."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          0600.  Ironhorse stood in front of the twelve Special Forces soldiers, who watched him with their full attention.  "Gentlemen," he began.  "We've been given a go. I want everyone ready for a deliberate takedown of the Hilton on order from higher," he instructed, using the familiar Delta Force jargon.  "External security has been established with local police and military.  Recon of the building and intel from the monitors show all the hostages have been moved into the Orchid room for the morning.  According to the blueprints, that is a large conference hall.  There are mobile wall partitions that can be used to create six smaller rooms out of the space. We haven't been able to determine the present condition of the room, so you'll have to wing it."

          Scott picked up for Ironhorse.  "We have a chopper pilot on loan from the Task Force.  You'll go in as six two-man elements.  Once the perimeter and the roof are secured we'll meet up and redistribute before the final assault on the Orchid room."

          "This is not an ordinary mission," Ironhorse stated matter-of-factly.  "There will be no sniper teams and no assault team.  Each pair will operate as an assault team.  Take out as many of Coul's people as possible, but do not kill the Zairians."  He eyes narrowed.  "We're not looking for prisoners to be prosecuted.  We're only concerned about getting those people out of there safe and sound."

          A hand went up.

          "Stein," Ironhorse acknowledged.

          "How will we insert the roof without tipping off the mission?"

          Paul and Scott exchanged amused expressions.  "Colonel McCoy thought we could capitalize on the infamous reputation of the press.  You and three others will be going in on a CNN chopper."

          The soldiers grinned.

          "The reporters are already establishing our cover, calling Coul, trying to get a promise of an exclusive interview out of him," McCoy explained.  "They owed me after the Gulf."

          "The Task Force pilot's at the controls, right?" Stein asked.

          "Absolutely," was McCoy's promise.

          "We're assuming that Coul will allow the chopper to land and order the journalists be brought to him on the seventh floor, or escorted to the first.  In either case we're looking at five to seven minutes from the time the roof insertion teams land to when we hit the seventh floor.  The ground insertion teams will go in twenty minutes before roof teams to secure floors one through six," Ironhorse explained, then added, "Okay, people, get your gear in order, we move at 0700."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse watched the seconds tick down on his watch.  0700.  Eight men were on the move.  He watched Stavrakos and two of McCoy's men head for the hotel's telecom closets.  They wore lightweight body armor designed to protect their throat and chest areas.  The soldiers had opted to forgo the "armored shorts" that usually protected their vulnerable groin areas.  In this case a little added mobility might be more important.  Besides their M9s, each man carried a silenced 9 mm Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun and full gear.

          Ironhorse checked the monitors he and McCoy had laid the day before.  They still showed the hostages in the Orchid room.  So far, so good.  The equipment beeped, and he glanced down.  Several of the mercs were prepping the atrium to meet the journalists at 1000.  Everyone was right on track…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Stavrakos led three of McCoy's operators through the telecommunications tunnels.  At the door he checked the motion monitor he'd secured above the top corner of the doorjamb.  The pin-point light was green.  He rapped once on the door.  The light remained green.  If there was someone on the other side of the door he was sleeping, dead, or had nerves of steel.

          Roberts, a lithe Afro-American from Boston, stepped forward and sprang the simple key lock with a pick.

          Neal entered the next room first, sweeping it with his MP5.  He motioned "all clear".  Evans entered next, moving forward and up the stairs to secure the stairwell.  One of the mercenaries, startled by the sudden arrival of the red-headed, farm-boy soldier, was too slow to save himself.  Evans opened the door, and peering down the hallway stated in clear, rapid tones into his mike.  "Number three, hallway clear."

          Neal was immediately at his side, having followed Evans up the stairs.  He moved to the left as Evans went right, both men blending into the darkened hallway.  Both soldiers' MP5's moved in measured arcs, ceiling to floor, left to right.

          Stavrakos and Roberts followed down the right side of the hall to another door.  Unlocked, they entered the telephone closet.  Roberts rapidly made the necessary changes to re-route all out-going calls to General Wilson.  That done, they joined Evans and Neal, the four men emerging into the lobby near the atrium.

          The sergeant checked his watch.  0702.  "Team Three.  Team Four, in place. One down."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Goodson moved with three Delta Force operators, working their way in toward the Hotel's rear entrance.  The dock area provided the men with ample cover, and the hazy light of pre-dawn covered their progress.  Reaching the delivery ramps, they scurried under one of the semi-trailers that had been abandoned when the drivers had fled the hotel.  They waited for the two guards to pass by the open dock area, then moved out.

          Sprinting up the delivery ramp, they entered the warehouse, their MP5's spitting three-round bursts of instant death.  Six men fell.

          Foster, one of McCoy's most reliable men, keyed his lip mike.  "Team Five, Team Six, in place.  Dock secured.  Six down."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse and McCoy listened to the progress of their men with serious expressions.  0703 and everyone was in place.

          Paul spoke softly into his mike, "Sweep the first floor.  Now."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The four two-man teams moved through the hotel's first floor, checking rooms.

          In the lead, Roberts signaled that he had movement in the small cafe.  Stavrakos pointed to the man's leg.

          Reaching down along his left thigh, Roberts pulled a soda-can-sized flash/bang grenade from his leg pouch.  Raising it up to his right hand, still gripping his MP5, he slid the grenade's pull-ring over his gloved thumb.  Holding the safety spoon down, he pulled the ring free.  Then, gently rolling the grenade into the room, he and the others flattened themselves against the wall.

          "Go!" Roberts commanded before the non-lethal grenade had expended its package.

          Stavrakos slid into the left side of the doorway as the room erupted in multiple flashes and explosions designed to disrupt, disorientate, and illuminate.  As he moved through the door, Goodson followed, sliding into the room along the doorway's right wall.  Roberts and Foster came after, going left and right.  Neal and Evans held their positions in the hall, providing backup.

          The soldiers carved up the room, Stavrakos and Roberts taking a twelve through nine o'clock arc, Goodson and Foster a twelve through three o'clock arc.  Evidently the mercs were rotating breakfast.  The men seated at several tables were completely unprepared.

          One wildly tried to bring his Polish-made AK-47 assault rifle to bear on the soldiers, but Foster squeezed a three-round burst into his throat.  The man slammed out of his chair, collapsing into a twitching heap.  The other soldiers opened fire.

          When they were through thirteen mercenaries were dead or wounded.  Goodson and Foster moved forward, checking for weapons and vital signs.

          Goodson flipped two wounded men over and expertly pinned their wrists together with flex cuffs.  Duct tape did an effective job on their ankles.

          That room secured, they finished moving through the first floor before Stavrakos reported in.  "First floor secure.  Ten down, three kicking.  Café.  Moving up."

          Back at their command center, Ironhorse gestured for the local police and military to begin moving in.  The soldiers moved out, heading up the stairwells, ready for what they knew was waiting for them.

          When they reached the landing one floor below the hostages, Stavrakos called in again.  "Hotel secure, one through six.  Five down.  On standby, waiting a go."

          It was 0718.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse and McCoy grabbed their MP5's and headed into the building, moving forward with members of the local military, who took over security for the hotel, removing the dead and wounded.

          Ironhorse keyed his mike.  "Team Seven in, turning op-com over to Apple One."

          "Acknowledged," Wilson replied.  "Good luck, gentlemen."

          The general paced outside the small communications truck.  What if Coul suspected something was wrong?  What would he do then?  What if he had a clue who he really had in that room?

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The sound of the CNN chopper broke the morning silence on the Hilton roof.  Normally the chopper assault team would repel or fast-rope in, but Ironhorse and McCoy didn't want to take any chances of the roof guards tipping their hand too early.

          With clockwork precision, the chopper appeared and headed directly for the roof at 0712.

          "Commander Coul, I think we have a chopper approaching," one of the guards reported into his radio.

          "Damned reporters," the ex-operator hissed.  "I told them no.  Wave them off when they get there."

          A few minutes later the guard tried, finally enlisting his three companions as well, but the pilot ignored them.

          "He's not moving away," the guard stated, a hint of panic in his voice.  "He's pointing.  He wants to land.  There's a passenger.  I think it's Peter Arnett."

          "I told them no!"

          "Should we fire?"

          "No!" Coul snapped.  "Let them land.  We'll add them to the hostages."

          "Roger," the guard said, returning his radio to its pouch on his belt.  Dropping the muzzle of his Mossberg automatic shotgun, he gestured to the pilot to land.

          The man maneuvered over the rooftop, flaring out level and steady.  In the rear passenger section, behind heavily tinted windows, Stein checked his fellows.  They were ready.  "Stand by…" he said, waiting for the chopper skids to touch the surface of the roof.  As soon as he felt contact, he barked, "Go!"

          The four soldiers scrambled onto the roof, immediately fanning out.  The four guards immediately moved forward, the muzzles of their weapons coming up, but Stein and his men were faster.  Between the whine of the chopper motor and the sound suppressor of the soldiers' MP5's no one heard the mercenaries' rapid death.

          The roof secured, two soldiers attached green climbing ropes, retrieved from the chopper, to anchor points, dropping them over the side of the building along predetermined entry sites.  Attaching their snaplinks to the rope, they knelt, waiting for Stein and Roman to enter the roof door.

          Stein and McCoy's first sergeant, Carl Roman, moved to the door.  Locked.  Without hesitation, Roman sprinted to the chopper, removing a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun.  The hinges disappeared from the top down in a shower of sparks and splinters.

          Yanking the door to the side, Stein stepped into the corridor, then moved immediately to press his back against the shadow-darkened stairwell wall.  He checked his watch.  Forty seconds since they had landed.  "Team One.  Roof secure.  Four down.  In and moving," he said over the communication system that linked the entire team.

          As soon as Stein and Roman entered the building, the remaining two soldiers stepped over the lip of the roof, repelling down to the ninth floor.  "Team Two on station," Corporal Carson stated into his lip mike.

          Moving up the stairs, Ironhorse checked the link to the motion monitors.  "Apple Six, I show all clear."

          Carson and his partner, Rondell, lowered themselves to a balcony landing and unhooked.  Popping a sliding glass door off its track, they set it aside and entered the empty hotel room.  With deadly precision they checked the ninth floor, then the eighth.

          When they were done, Carson reported, "Team Two on final station.  One down."

          Stein and Roman joined them.  "Team One, on standby," Stein stated.  "Waiting a go."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          0719.  Twenty-five mercs left if their count was accurate, and the hotel was secure except for the seventh floor.

          Ironhorse and McCoy met the other soldiers in the bridal suite on the sixth floor.  By their best counts there were twenty plus mercenaries, four ZTLL members, and 180 scientists left on the seventh floor.

          Paul keyed his mike.  "Apple One, Apple Six, any word from Coul?"

          "Negative," Wilson replied.

          It was a go.

          "Team One, Team Two, prepare for repel.  Go in one."

          "Roger," Stein's voice replied.

          "This is it," Paul said, catching McCoy's serious gaze.

          Scott nodded.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Coul paced in one corner of the conference room.  He checked his watch, wondering what was holding up Ratcliff with the journalists.

          _Idiots!_ he thought.  _They're probably trying to interview the mercenary.  Do they think I'm playing games?_

          His gaze swept over the room.  At least the scientists had proven easy to handle.  Despite his rather cynical expectations, they had embraced the plight of the tribesmen, and interrogated them endlessly for details of the symptoms, the pattern the infection took as it spread, and the roots of its origins.

          Braum was one reason it was going so well.  He had remained calm since the beginning.  Of course, he had something precious to protect: his daughter.  Coul's gaze rested on Sophie Braum, wondering if her father knew she was the tribesmen's inside agent.  She moved through the crowd, listening for signs of resistance, ready to report it back to Mabalo, but thus far no one had voiced any opposition.

          He wondered what the scientists would do when he finally killed one of them as a demonstration of his resolve.  The Zairians would be upset, but he was getting more out of this than a mere million.

          His gaze settled on the tall, curly-haired American, his eyes narrowing.  What was the man's name…?

          Blackwood.  Yes, Harrison Blackwood.

          Blackwood might become a problem once the killing began.  He seemed to have spirit, and something else the mercenary couldn't put his finger on.  Whatever it was, it left him feeling uncomfortable with the man.  Coul nodded to himself.  He would remove the obstacle before he had a chance to cause trouble.  Blackwood would be the first to die.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse, McCoy, and the other soldiers reached the stairwell on the seventh floor, eliminating two more of the mercenaries.  With a nod from Ironhorse the soldiers moved silently into the hallway and began checking rooms, finding three more of Coul's men sleeping in one.

          Ironhorse left three of the soldiers to hold that hallway, as the rest of them moved to the next, repeating the process.  Four more mercenaries were discovered sleeping before they reached the last hallway leading to the Orchid room.

          Leaving behind three more soldiers, Paul led the remaining eight forward.  It was 0722.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          0723.  Coul grabbed his radio.  "Ratcliff, get those damned reporters down here," he snarled.  Dead air was the reply.  "Ratcliff?"  His brow furrowed.  "Tabbin?"

          Nothing.

          "Richards?"

          Again, nothing.

          Slamming the radio down on the table next to the podium, he reached for his Mossberg.

          Harrison turned when he heard the crash of the radio, watching Coul intently. Something was happening.  He didn't know what it was, but he hoped for a certain Army colonel coming to the rescue.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse and McCoy crouched at one door to the Orchid room.  Paul glanced over his shoulder.  The six men waiting with them signaled they were ready.  He signaled them into three pairs and waved them off.

          The soldier rushed silently to the remaining doors into the room.  Four heartbeats later Ironhorse and McCoy heard the clicks that told them all the men were in place.  0723.

          McCoy gave the colonel a thumb's up.

          "Go," Ironhorse said into the lip mike.  They hit the doors as one.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison watched the unfolding events like a slow-motion horror movie.  The room's four doors exploded inward as Coul's fingers curled around the weapon, his face exploding into pulp as he did.

          The guards standing at the doors fell or lunged out of the way, but did not get up again.

          Blackwood felt the smooth muscles of his heart constrict.  Odd, almost hissing sounds filled the room.  The guards scattered among the scientists began to fall.  Several of the scientists screamed or cried out.

          How could they—?

          The merc standing next to Harrison jack-knifed over and collapsed, his neck blown away.  The peculiar odor of blood and gunpowder filled the room.

          He forced himself to turn, trying to follow what was going on.  The terrorists did not scramble for cover or return fire.  They simply fell.  It was impossible.

          At quickly as it started, it appeared to be over.

          Movement at one side of the room caught the astrophysicist’s attention.  Ironhorse.

          One of their captors lunged toward the colonel, swinging his jammed or empty weapon like it was a baseball bat.  Harrison heard himself suck in a sharp breath as Ironhorse stepped closer to the attacker, jamming his forearms against the man's and following up with a knee kick to the man's mid-section.

          The merc managed to force his blow through, landing it on Ironhorse's shoulder before he staggered back.

          Blackwood was sure he heard the colonel comment, "Strike one, asshole."

          Enraged or desperate, the man charged a second time, the rifle swinging up for a second blow.  Ironhorse stepped up to meet the attack a second time, his left arm coming forward and down against the attacker's wrist while his right arm scissored up against the underside of the merc's upper arm.

          The man kicked, then screamed as his elbow shattered.

          "Strike two," Ironhorse hissed, absorbing the kick to his ribs.

          With his good arm, the man scooped up the Mossberg from the floor, aiming the butt at Ironhorse's face.

          The colonel took two quick steps forward, deflecting the butt upward with his forearm.  Following the motion, he grabbed the barrel and the stock as it continued upward and back.  With a quick jerk Ironhorse pulled the weapon free, destroying the man's balance at the same time.

          The mercenary stumbled forward.  Ironhorse spun, watching him pass before thrusting the muzzle into the man's kidney region.  He arched back in response to the blow, Ironhorse snapping a roundhouse kick into his abdomen.

          The man lurched forward, Ironhorse executing a snapping crescent kick, his boot heel catching the back of the man's neck.  The mercenary collapsed, his neck broken.

          "Strike three, motherfucker," Ironhorse growled.

          Blackwood felt his knees weaken and grabbed the back of the chair in front of him, only to find his fingers slicked with the splattered blood of the dead man lying draped over the chairs next to him.

          Harrison's stunned gaze locked on Suzanne's.  She was pale, but still on her feet.

          "I think I should faint now," she breathed.

          "Bet I could beat you to the floor," was Blackwood's reply.

          Near the front of the room, McCoy's soldiers secured the four tribesmen in flex-cuffs.  Glancing around the room, the two Project members recognized Stein, then Goodson, and finally Stavrakos.

          "Harrison, Suzanne, are you all right?"

          They turned to find a concerned colonel, anxiously looking them over.

          Blackwood blinked, time and circumstances failing to catch up with one another in his shock-fuddled mind.  His gaze flickered to the body of the man Ironhorse had defeated.  "You killed him," was all Harrison could say.

          Ironhorse's lips folded down in a frown.  "What was I supposed to do, Doctor?  Shake his fucking hand?"

          Suzanne giggled, then covered her mouth with her hand.  "Sorry," she apologized.  "Stress reaction."

          Ironhorse met her gaze, his lips starting to turn up.  "It's all over.  You're safe."

          With the news Harrison sank down in a chair, his head tilting back, his eyes closing.  "No, Colonel," he breathed.  "It's just starting.  You have to hear what Mabalo knows."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse paced in the hotel suite, stopping in front of the chair where Blackwood sat.  "You're telling me that the aliens are behind this plague?" he demanded.

          "Yes," Harrison replied, looking to Suzanne for support.  He pressed back into the chair, an unreasonable wave of fear sweeping over him with Ironhorse so close.

          "Nothing else makes sense," she said from where she sat perched on the edge of the couch.  Turning to her uncle, she pleaded, "Please.  We have to check.  If it is the aliens, and they manage to perfect some kind of biological weapon out in the jungle…"

          General Wilson nodded.  "I agree.  If there's any chance—"

          "It might already be too late," Blackwood interrupted, wishing the colonel would back off and wondering how long he was going to be afraid of the man who kept him alive.  "We have no idea how long they've been out there.  What they're doing."

          Ironhorse stepped away, pausing to stare out the large window to the city below. "No," he said quietly.  "If they had that kind of a weapon, we'd have seen it already."  Looking back to Wilson, he continued.  "I'll have to brief McCoy and his men.  They can't go in without knowing what they're up against."

          "I'll arrange for a flight for this afternoon," the general agreed.

          The colonel nodded.

          "But if you're exposed…" Suzanne said, trailing off.

          "What choice do we have?" Ironhorse asked.  "Harrison's right, we have to know what the hell they're doing.  But I'd like to know what we're up against."

          "Be careful," Suzanne said.

          Harrison watched the colonel leave, pondering the fact that Ironhorse could kill him as easily as he passed him a cup of coffee.  Not that he hadn't realized that fact before, but watching Paul take down the mercenary reinforced the fact, foregrounding it in his mind.  It was just going to take him some time to get past the fear the realization generated.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Wilson was the last to board the Zairian Airbus.  He took a seat next to Suzanne, then leaned around her to speak to Ironhorse and Blackwood as the plane took off.  "I have an additional piece of the puzzle.  It seems that the CDC is missing a team of four scientists.  Specialists on infectious viruses.  They were in the Bumba area doing follow-up work on earlier epidemics.  They were supposed to report in, but haven't been heard from in over two months."

          "That might be where they got their experts," Suzanne said.

          "What do you think they're working with?" Ironhorse asked.

          Wilson shook his head.  "I have no idea.  The team was familiar with several of the African exotics, Ebola, Lassa."

          "My God," Blackwood said.  "We have to stop them.  If even a fraction of what Mabalo told us was true – if they loosed that kind of plague in the U.S., the panic—"

          "It would be like the end of the world," Suzanne said, and no one accused her of overstating the situation.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse, McCoy, and the rest of the soldiers moved through another deserted village like ghosts.  Around them the smell of death clung to the huts and shelters.  For three days they had searched through the Bumba jungle, finding nothing but abandoned homes and fresh graves.  It was eerie and wore on them.

          After a day of investigation, they established a pattern to the village desertion.  They moved out the next day, tracking the communities first abandoned further into the jungle.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Movement," Goodson signaled from point.  He gestured into the trees.

          Ironhorse and McCoy moved forward.

          In another tiny village, some blended and unblended aliens went about the business of reviving their fellows from their steel barrel coffins.  Others worked along several rough-hewn tables littered with plants and bowls full of something unknown.

          The soldiers could barely recognize the four missing CDC scientists, their faces a mass of oozing radiation sores.

          "Jesus," McCoy breathed.

          Ironhorse motioned for the soldiers to spread out and lay the explosives they carried around the village perimeter.  The men disappeared, carrying out the order with swift efficiency.

          Fifteen minutes later all the soldiers had returned.  "All set," Stavrakos stated quietly.

          Ironhorse nodded, signaling the attack.

          The village erupted as the explosives detonated.  The Special Forces soldiers swarmed in, their MP5's finding easy targets among the aliens.

          It was obvious to Ironhorse immediately that something was wrong.  Some of the unblended aliens fell, decomposing into the familiar pools of frothy goo.  Other blended and unblended aliens absorbed the fire, apparently uninjured.  That was new.

          One of McCoy's men screamed as two of the unblended aliens grabbed him.  Ironhorse riddled the aliens with fire, but there was no effect.  One of the creatures forced itself into the soldier's body.

          Ironhorse fired again, this time at the blended soldier.  He watched the alien take six shots to the neck and face and still advance on him.

          Ironhorse made a decision.  "Pull back!"

          The soldiers followed the colonel and McCoy out of the fray and back into the jungle.

          "What now?" McCoy asked as they turned and ran.

          "We get the hell out of here," was Ironhorse's instant reply.  "We're in deep shit."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "They didn't dissolve?" Blackwood demanded, pacing the hanger away from the colonel.  He was still afraid of Ironhorse, but it was fading as they continued to face crisis after crisis in Africa.

          Nearby McCoy and his people sat silently, cleaning and prepping their gear.

          "No."

          "How is that possible?" Suzanne demanded from where she sat on a stack of old airplane tires.

          "You're asking me?" Ironhorse countered, his fists coming up to rest on his hips.

          "What do we do now?" Suzanne asked.

          Ironhorse shook his head.  "We pulled back, regrouped with the Zaire military, and went back.  The village was empty.  I have no idea where those monsters are."

          "What did they find out there?" Blackwood asked.  "How did they do that?"

          "We better get out there and find out," Suzanne said.

          Ironhorse nodded.  "The sooner the better."

          "If we can," was Blackwood's pessimistic reply.

          "The aliens just coming out of their barrels died just like they always have," Ironhorse said.  "It was the rest that didn't dissolve."

          "They must have found something in the environment that stabilizes their cell structure," Suzanne speculated.  "Something similar to their home world."  She blinked as the realization set in.  "My God, that means that they're normally resilient!  If they're able to pass that along to the rest of them—"

          "We have a whole new war on our hands," Ironhorse completed for her.

          "We're ready to go," McCoy stated, walking over to join Ironhorse.  "Let's just hope we can find them."

          The colonel nodded.

          "Paul," Blackwood said.

          "Harrison?"  The scientist nodded, and moved off away from the others, Ironhorse following.  "What?" the colonel asked.

          Harrison glanced at the soldier, then down at his boots.  "Uh, Paul, I just wanted to say thank you."

          "Just doing my job, Doctor."

          Blackwood nodded as he said, "I know, but…  I also know you care."  The blue eyes flickered up just long enough to see the truth in the colonel's eyes.  "I appreciate the risks you took.  That you're still taking.  But I have to tell you, you scared the hell out of me."

          Ironhorse forced back a smile.  "That's Delta Force, Harrison.  Any time, any place, any objective."

          "I know, but—"

          "But it's shocking to see such efficient killing."

          Blackwood nodded again.  "I know it had to be done…"

          "But?"

          "But they were human beings."  Blackwood looked up, meeting Ironhorse's black gaze.  "And I wanted them dead.  I was—"

          "You were pissed off that they had the gall to kidnap people who were trying to save the planet."

          Harrison's eyes widened.  "Yes.  Yes, that's exactly how I felt."

          "It's a natural response, Harrison.  Really.  And it's not easy for me, for these men to kill, but that's what we've been trained to do.  To save innocent people."

          "I know."  Harrison reached out, gripping the colonel's shoulder.  "But I wanted to say thank you, and to tell you I didn't mean what I said."

          Ironhorse offered the scientist a small smile.  "I know.  It was shock.  We all did what we had to.  And I have one more thing to do."

          "Be careful, Paul."

          "We're always careful, Harrison.  That's how we stay alive."

          Ironhorse stepped away, only to run into Suzanne.  She gave the soldier a hug.  "You scared me, too, but I was never more glad to see someone in my entire life."

          "It's over, but we'll talk more when I get back."  He glanced over his shoulder to include Blackwood.  "All of us."

          "Good," Suzanne said.  "Now, go kick some alien butt."

          Ironhorse grinned.  "Yes, ma'am."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The scientist and commander entered the caverns.  The Advocates stood, waiting for them.

          "Tell us how you managed to fail as we reached the moment of our final victory," the female spat.

          "Advocates," the commander stated.  "We were forced to abandon our work site, but even now we set up further into the jungle.  They will not find us.  The jungle is thick and vast, and inhabiting the bodies of the local tribesmen aids our process."

          "Yes," the scientist stated, her new lithe black host body looking almost defiant.  "They also know where to find the plants we need to make us strong.  We will begin production of the tincture shortly, Advocates."

          "And the contagion?" the elder male asked.

          "We will pick up where we left off," the scientist assured.  "We have not lost much ground."

          "Our envoy informs us that soldiers are searching the jungle," the younger male snapped.  "They have already killed many of our nearly awakened brethren.  They will not stop until they hunt us down."

          "Once we have enough of the tincture they will not be able to find us," the commander stated confidently.  "We will blend into the jungle dwellers and hide until the soldiers leave.  Then the scientists will resume their research."

          "We must have that tincture," the female stated.  "We must insure our survival."

          "We are nothing without your council," the scientist said.  "We will send you the tincture as soon as we return."

          "Then go, and do not fail," the elder male commanded.

          "Another failure will be your last," the younger male added.

          The commander and scientist bowed and left.

          "Every time we near victory, our scientists fail," the female lamented.

          "Once we have the tincture we will be invulnerable," the younger male said.  "Then we can lead from the field and insure our final victory."

          The elder male nodded.  "It is just a matter of time."

 

The End


End file.
